


Precious.

by Inky_Blackheart



Series: Power (And Control) [3]
Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, Flirting, Guts being Guts, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares, Sleepy Cuddles, Talking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky_Blackheart/pseuds/Inky_Blackheart
Summary: A collection of small intimate moments between the Commander of the Band of the Hawks and his Raiding Captain (and lover).
Relationships: Griffith/Guts (Berserk)
Series: Power (And Control) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006137
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	1. Proud (Guts POV)

**Author's Note:**

> Set after "Prize" and "Pacify" but can be read as a stand-alone work. 
> 
> Takes place after the battle and party in episode three. 
> 
> No content warnings apply unless soft things bother you.

**One:**

**Proud (Guts POV)**

The barracks were quiet when Guts finally made his way back to them. There were some benefits to staying within the castle walls: no need to set up camp, no sleeping on the ground, and a certain sense of calm and peacefulness that one didn’t find sleeping under the stars. He was looking forward to a decent night's sleep, and hopefully a solitary one, for once.

Griffith had been trying to make eye contact all night at the party, and Guts had determinedly ignored him. He didn’t want to have to thank the man for letting him join the battle, not when he’d defended the rear admirably and fought every instinct in his soul to just run, disappear into the forests of the night, run so far and so fast that Griffith would never find him. But he hadn’t. He’d done his job, even if Griffith did have to come get him and carry him through the woods on the back of his horse. The grip of his hand was strong, sure, like he knew Guts wouldn't run. Like he was holding onto something too valuable to leave behind. He didn’t like it. He did like it. Whatever. He just wanted to enjoy the party he’d been invited to and pretend that he was just any other soldier, one of the band.

When he approached, he noticed a familiar form leaning against the entrance, one leg crossed over the other. Guts didn’t even have to get close to see the satisfied smile, like a cat after catching a fish. He almost wanted to turn back, to enjoy some quiet in the woods a little bit longer, but his feet kept moving without any conscious control, until he was in front of Griffith, stiff and awkward, any words he’d been thinking dead in his throat. He took one step back, hesitating, his heel taking a few seconds to fully touch the ground and place him away from the enigmatic man before him. “Uh, hi.”

“Hello yourself,” Griffith said, smiling at him toothlessly, his lips wet where they quirked into a smile. “You did well today. I’m very impressed.”

“Thanks. Shouldn’t be a surprise, since you saw me fight Bazuzo.”

“Fighting one man does not a soldier make. Fighting for others does.” Griffith pushed off the wall and stepped into Gut’s bubble. He wrapped his arms around Guts’ waist, pulling him into a hug. “I’m proud of you.”

Guts blushed a deep red. “Shut up.”

“I am. I thought you were exceptional. One of the best soldiers I’ve ever fought beside.” He rested his chin on Gut’s collarbone, batting his blue eyes up at him through his long lashes. “I look forward to more battles together.”

“Good, because you can’t keep me in your tent forever. This is just the beginning. I swing my sword, I fight. That’s what I’ve always done, and what I’ll keep doing till the day I die.”

“I know,” Griffith purred. “And I do so love to watch you do it. But don’t forget; only I decide where and when you die.”

 _That was almost cute_ , Guts thought, internally rolling his eyes. _But he just had to go and ruin it_. “I’ll just try to keep myself alive, then.”

“Good.” Griffith turned away and hid a yawn in his sleeve. “I bet you’re wondering why I’m out here.”

“To get some.” Guts said. He blinked and realized that he had, in fact, voiced his thoughts. “I, uh...”

Griffith laughed softly, an alluring blush dusting his high cheekbones. “Normally, you’d be correct. But not tonight. I’ve become accustomed to sharing my bed, and I find myself unable to sleeping alone. I cannot seem to find any rest on my own. I was hoping...”

“Aren’t we all sharing barracks? Those beds aren’t big enough for two people.”

Griffith sighed. “I know, curse it all. I was hoping you could take the bunk next to mine. It’s empty, you see. I suppose none of the men wanted to sleep beside me.”

 _They probably didn’t want to watch us fuck_ , Guts thought, _or they don’t consider themselves worthy to share that space with you_. If he was honest, he barely did. “Alright.” Guts sighed. He was agreeing too easily. He knew that the truth was he wasn’t used to it either, but he was so tired he doubted that would make a difference. He wouldn’t say no to getting a bed closer to the door, either. He stepped away from Griffith, clearing his throat. “To be clear...”

“I will not make a move on you. Knight’s honour.” Griffith crossed his heart, still blinking at him. If he kept that up, Guts would have to be the move-maker. That was...not a pleasant thought.

“You’re no knight.”

“Not yet,” Griffith said, his voice suddenly resolute. He blinked and the moment was gone. “Ready for bed?”

Guts nodded, gesturing at the door. “Lead the way, Commander.”

Griffith winked at him, taking his hand and leading him back to the barracks. Guts followed, willingly, his tired feet unsteady as he went. He ignored the warmth of the same hand that pulled him onto his horse, calloused but elegant, warm but cold from the night air, strong grip but feather-light touch. Griffith was a man of contradictions, of opposites, of extreme. Capable of extreme violence and extreme affection within the same day. Not for the first time, he wondered if he’d ever make it out of this man’s orbit and if he ever really wanted to.

Moments later, Guts found himself lying on his back, staring at the bunk atop his, suddenly wide awake. He could hear Griffith shuffling beside him, getting himself comfortable enough to sleep, making noises that were almost adorable. Guts rolled over onto his side. He just needed to rest, even more so if he thought anything Griffith was doing was adorable. He heard Griffith mumble into his pillow over his shoulder. “Goodnight, my sword,” Griffith said, yawning. “Sweet dreams.”

Guts shut his eyes. “You too.”

He’d never admit that Griffith’s breathing, steady and sure, like a stream gurgling outside the tents, helped him finally fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Golden Age Arc, but I'm also really enjoying the current arc in the fairy kingdom. Seeing Casca get her mind back was an incredible moment. 
> 
> I was inspired to create some sweeter, softer fics in between the explicit sex stuff. Enjoy. ❤️
> 
> A/N: Comments are being moderated. 
> 
> https://inkyblacc.tumblr.com/
> 
> My YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC97JcI76oZWkH25xm3BHRPQ
> 
> Spotify Playlist for fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2F9QSVpSNlqQowtpPvSt2C?si=3K3VVGjmSyy9Dw0vjfBi5w


	2. Plead (Griffith POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after "Prize" and "Pacify" but can be read as a stand-alone work.
> 
> Mentions of death and gore, and Gennon, the creepy old man.

**Two:**

**Plead (Griffith POV)**

The dream always began the same, but rarely ended as such. Perhaps it was his subconscious reminding Griffith of whence he came, reminding him to be grateful of how far he had climbed from the gutter he came from. Either way, the dream always began with the boy.

Griffith didn’t know his name. At one point he had tried to learn the name of every Hawk, but as their band expanded that proved nearly impossible. The boy offered no clues, no hints that he had ever tried to learn it at all. Reminding him that he’d seen the boy as a chess piece, a pawn to be sent to the frontlines and trampled beneath bloody feet. Sometimes the child was older than he’d been when he died, sometimes younger. Sometimes his head was attached, and sometimes he carried it in his hands like a little girl would carry a doll. His eyes were bright every single time. “Play with me?” he’d ask, smiling at Griffith. Griffith nodded. In the dream, he started as a boy himself, white hair soft as lamb’s wool, his small body coursing with an energy he only wished he could call on now. He’d follow the boy, and then the boy would vanish.

This time, he screamed before he did, yanked into the darkness with unseen hands.

Griffith screamed himself, reaching out for him as if he could have done a goddamn thing to stop it. As if he wasn’t a child himself. But he wasn’t, was he? He looked down at his hands. They were in his gauntlets, large enough to hold a sword. Yes, he was grown now. That made it worse.

He charged towards the place the boy had been last, the scene shifting as he ran. Forests, deserts, mountains, castles and slums blurring as he chased an echo, his fingers stretched out, waiting for something to grab.

Something grabbed his neck. Griffith thrashed as he was pulled back. In the dream world, he could not run out of air and escape this torment by going unconscious. No, he was awake and aware as the thing squeezed his throat, one of its hands moving to his hair. “Griffith,” a gentle female voice said, “look at how big you are.”

This voice was quiet. He didn’t remember much of his mother. She’d died when he was so young that he couldn't remember what had taken her, whether it was the poverty or sickness or some twisted combination of both. The next voice wasn’t. “Griiiiiiffffiiiiithhhhh,” it called out, the hand on his hair moving to the small of his back, the grip on his throat tighter. Gennon’s voice was slimier here than in real life. “Come to me, precious. Come to me.”

“I can’t,” Griffith wheezed out. “I have to save him.”

“Why?” Gennon laughed. “You killed him.”

“I know.” Griffith croaked, raising his hands to claw ineffectually at the fingers restricting his air. “Can’t you see that I know that?”

Gennon laughed and let go of his throat for a moment, but didn’t move his hand from his back. “You killed them all.”

“Who?” Griffith asked. “Who did I kill? I only killed the boy!"

“Them,” was Gennon’s only answer before he pushed Griffith forward. He fell into blackness, pitch darkness, perfect darkness, as if he’d never known light. When he finally landed he could see again, but he wished he couldn’t. Oh, how he wished he couldn't.

He was lying in a field of bodies, a torn Midland flag flapping in the breeze. Flies buzzed through the air, the shriek of a falcon audible over everything else, including the pounding of Griffith’s own heart. He looked down. The bodies weren’t faceless enemies. They weren’t faceless Hawks either. They were his high command, his inner circle. Casca laid face down, blood dripping from a hole in her back, splayed out across the ground. Rickert’s empty eyes stared up at him from his head, the boy’s body lying a few feet away. Pippin was cut clean in half, his face twisted in rigour mortis like he was accusing Griffith of his death. Korkus had several arrows sticking out of the expanse of his body, some in his torso, a few in his neck, and several in his face and eyes. Judeau’s head had been half-crushed by a horse, blood leaking from his eyes, nose and mouth, the rest of his body crushed and bent out of any shape resembling human. Griffith wanted to vomit, wanted to scream, wanted to move, but he couldn't do more than crawl forward. Everything in him told him to run from this place, that it wasn’t real, that this couldn’t happen, but he couldn’t. Not until he found him. Not until...

He felt Gut’s coarse black hair before he saw him. He looked down, his hands covered in blood, looking down at Guts’ face. He looked peaceful. He looked almost like he’d been killed in his sleep. Griffith scanned over his body. His clothes were torn, deep claw marks leaking crimson under the tattered fabric. His sword was in his hand still. The hand that was left. Guts’ other hand was cast aside, lying on top of even more bodies. Griffith stroked Guts’ hair, finally finding his voice. “No. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. I would never...”

He felt something shift in his hands. Guts stared up at him, his eyeless, noseless face still boring into Griffith’s soul. “Did your dream come true?” He asked, his voice hollow, devoid of any emotion.

“This isn’t my dream!” Griffith screamed. “This isn’t what I want.”

He heard footsteps. Someone was walking over the corpses, coming to stand by his side. “Hey, Griffith.” The boy called out. Griffith didn’t respond. The boy called again. “Griffith.”

Griffith looked up, his eyes red, his face drained of colour. He could smell them now, the stink of rot he’d long since grown so accustomed to. The boy had no eyes either, watching him with a smile, his head tilted coyly. He raised his small hand, the behelit danging from his small fingers. Griffith watched as it turned into a face and started to scream, louder than a thousand cannons and twice as terrifying. Yet still, the boy’s voice could be heard over it all. “Do you still want to play with me?”

And suddenly, it was all gone.

Griffith opened his eyes, still bleary from the last dregs of sleep. He wasn’t just lying in bed, though. He was being shaken. Roughly. “Hey asshole, wake up already!” Guts snapped. “I can’t listen to you whimpering anymore, you better wake up or...”

Griffith blinked. He was in his tent. He felt the reassurance of his bedroll underneath him, soft yet solid, immensely grounding. He looked up at Guts, straddling him, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. His brown eyes were wide with concern, giving Griffith a stream of consciousness ramble as Griffith slowly regained consciousness. “It’s fine, you’re fine, just wake up, you sound like you’re dying, you better now be dying....”

Griffith took a long, stuttering, deep breath. “I’m not dying now, but if you keep shaking me that’s going to change very quickly.”Guts dropped him, climbing off of him and sitting on the bedroll next to him. The dim light from the fires outside let him see enough in the dark to be able to make out Guts next to him, watching Griffith stretch and blink and come back to reality. Guts was alive. If he focused, he could hear the sounds of the camp all around him. Everyone else was alive too. It was just a dream. All of it was just a bad, bad dream. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose you know what was happening.”

“Yeah, I’m not an idiot.” Guts responded. Despite the harshness in his words, Guts’ tone was gentle. “I’ve seen enough nightmares to know you were having one.”

Griffith nodded. “I have them, from time to time. You won’t find anyone who’s been a soldier as long as I have who doesn’t.”

“I get it.” Guts nodded. He reached out, hesitantly, and ran his hand through Griffith’s hair. It was comforting, so different from the way his not-mother’s hand in his dream. “We’ve both seen some shit.”

“We have indeed.” Griffith agreed. “Why did you try to wake me?”

“Your whimpers were keeping me awake,” Guts said. Griffith rolled his eyes. Here, in the stillness of the night, in the quiet of their tent, Guts didn’t have to pretend at anything. Griffith rather wished he wouldn’t. Guts sighed. “And, maybe I was worried about you. I know what nightmares are like. I didn’t like hearing you suffering.”

Griffith reached out and found Guts’ knee, squeezing it. “Thanks.”

“Don’t...don’t mention it.”

“Same for you.” Griffith said, smirking. “I’d rather not have the Hawks know I have nightmares.”

“They wouldn't judge you.”

“I’m an idealized figure to most of them. Weakness would shatter morale.”

“Or they’d start to see you as the goof you are,” Guts said, poking Griffith in the nose. “And they’d accept it.”

Griffith sighed. “Still.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Guts assured him.

Griffith nodded and rolled over. He closed his eyes, but he didn’t feel tired. At all. He groaned, curling in on himself. One of the effects of being shaken awake, he supposed.

“Can’t sleep?” Guts asked.

“No, I can’t.” Griffith retorted.

He chastised himself in his head. He didn’t need to be so harsh. He was grateful to Guts for waking him, but he wished he’d done it any other way. He heard Guts shift beside him. He wondered if Guts would give him hell for keeping him awake, or if he’d just turn away and try to sleep. What actually happened was very surprising. Guts rolled over and wrapped his arms around Griffith, pulling him to his chest. Griffith could feel Guts’ breath on the back of his neck, his entire body surging with a newfound heat. Guts was like a roaring bonfire, warm and comforting as he rested his head next to Griffith’s. Griffith tried to turn to look at him, but he couldn't move. “Just settle down, Griffith. Go to sleep.”

“What are you doing?” Griffith asked.

“Ain’t it obvious? I’m helping you go back to sleep. You like cuddling and all that girly shit. Thought you’d like this.” Guts grunted, yawning and inhaling some of Griffith’s hair. “Didn’t figure you’d want to talk about it.”

“No,” Griffith admitted, “I don’t.” _Because I’m half afraid it’s going to come true_.

“Great. So shut up and go to sleep.” Guts said, murmuring into Griffith’s hair. “You’re so soft.”

“I do try. I have this man, you see, who really likes my hair...”

“Shut up or I’m rolling over.” Guts grumbled.

“I’m soft, and you’re warm. Maybe we should fall asleep like this every night.” Griffith joked.

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me.” Guts said softly, his huge body twitching as he started to drift off.

Griffith smiled to himself. He knew Guts would never admit to saying that as soon as daylight broke, but the idea was comforting, this little secret that they shared. Guts was warm, and alive, and sleeping peacefully against his back. He was sure that, just for tonight, maybe he would be able to go back to sleep without receiving another visit from the boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make the "deaths" of the Hawks in Griffith's nightmares reminiscent of their actual deaths in canon during the Eclipse. Except for Guts, obviously, because he doesn't die (and only loses one eye). 
> 
> I've finished all six chapters of these sweet, soft little things. It was hard to think of cute things to do, as many of the things I thought of wouldn't work for the middle ages, but I think I have suitably saccharine snippets. Enjoy. ❤️
> 
> A/N: Comments are being moderated.
> 
> https://inkyblacc.tumblr.com/
> 
> My YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC97JcI76oZWkH25xm3BHRPQ
> 
> Spotify Playlist for fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2F9QSVpSNlqQowtpPvSt2C?si=3K3VVGjmSyy9Dw0vjfBi5w


	3. Preen (Guts POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guts helps Griffith get ready for an audience with a servant working for the king of Midland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after "Prize" and "Pacify" but can be read as a stand-alone work.

**Three:**

**Preen (Guts POV)**

Guts heard Griffith swearing before he even undid the strings holding the flap of the tent shut. It gave him pause, making him hesitate before opening the tent fully, his calloused fingers hovering over the rough fabric. Griffith was a very controlled man, slow to anger, slow to smile, hardly spoke a word that didn’t sound like he’d thought about it first. Swearing wasn’t something he was used to hearing from the man outside of their...exchanges. Guts opened the tent and stepped inside, curiosity winning out.

Griffith was sitting in front of a mirror, stacked on a couple of barrels, clumps of his snow-white blonde hair in both his comb and his fingers, ranting and raving at the injustice of it all. It was such an absurd scene that Guts wasn’t sure if he should laugh or leave. He settled for clearing his throat, grabbing Griffith’s attention. The commander turned around, his face flushed scarlet with impotent rage. “Can I help you?” He ground out, glaring at Guts.

“This is my tent too, don’t give me that crap.” Guts sauntered in, leaning his sword against the usual tent-post. The sunlight that the fabric of the tent couldn't quite keep out was casting the whole space in a dreamlike faint yellow. He stripped out of his training armour and walked back over in his usual clothes, sticking to him with the sweat of practising his combat skills on a sunny day. “What’s your problem?”

Griffith sighed, putting the comb down beside the mirror. “I’ve been summoned.”

“Summoned? By who? We’re already on a job.”

“By one of the King’s retainers.” Griffith said, his jaw taut, his teeth grit as if the mere thought of meeting such a person made him angry.

“Why?”

“The hell should I know?” Griffith snapped. Guts took a step back, crossing his arms over his ample chest. Griffith sighed, rubbing his furrowed brow. “I apologize. I fear this will be some pointless formality. You are right. We already have an assignment. I don’t know why his majesty wants this audience, but I can’t exactly refuse.”

“No, I guess not.” Gut’s eyes wandered over to the comb. The tufts of hair in them suddenly made more sense. “And you want to look nice.”

Griffith nodded. “Yes. I know you probably don’t understand it, but impressions are very important on nobles and their proxies. I wanted to braid my hair, but I’m struggling with it. It’s too humid. My hair refuses to play along, and I am considering cutting it off with my sword.”

“Don’t do that.” Guts loathed to admit it, but he really liked Griffith’s hair. It was soft, like a woman’s, and it felt nice when he ran his fingers through it. He took offense to the idea that he didn’t understand the behind the scenes politics of army life. He did. He just didn’t care. “What’s the big deal? Just wear it down, or tuck it under your helmet like you always do.”

“As I said, impressions are important. I don’t think wearing my helmet would be appropriate.” Griffith opened his other hand and showed a ribbon, crinkled from being clenched in his sweaty palms. “Wearing one’s hair tied in a ribbon is the style for the men of the court if they have hair my length. But I can’t bloody get it to co-operate! You’re so lucky. What I wouldn't give for straight hair.”

Guts shrugged. He’d never really given it much thought. He wondered if that was why Casca always kept hers short too. “Want some help?”

“You’d...you’d help me with my hair?” Griffith pondered out loud. “Do you even know how?”

“It can’t be that hard!” Guts protested. Well, now he had to do it, to prove Griffith’s smug ass wrong. He came up behind Griffith and grabbed the comb, taking the opportunity to run his fingers through Griffith’s hair. “I used to help my...” Thinking of Shizu hurt too much to finish the sentence.“I used to help someone else with theirs. Her hair wasn’t as nice as yours.”

“Mother?” Griffith asked.

“Something like that,” Guts said quietly.

“You know,” Griffith said, leaning back to catch Guts’ eyes, “I don’t know much about your family, nor if you had one, or what you did before you came to be with us. All I know is that you had someone like a mother, and something very bad happened in your past. You’re a mystery.”

Guts gave Griffith’s soft locks a tug. “There’s a reason for that,” he warned.

Griffith hummed. “I suppose so.”

Guts started to work the comb through Griffith’s hair, going as slowly and gently as he could. Griffith’s curls, while too loose to really be called proper curls, were still full of knots and tangles. “I don’t know much about you, either.”

“There isn’t much to tell.” Griffith shrugged, earning a tap on the head with the brush. If Griffith wouldn't stay still, Guts was worried he’d wind up ripping out a knot rather than pushing through it. “I’m an orphan. I barely remember my parents. I grew up on the streets, stealing to survive. But I always knew I wanted my own kingdom, and I became a mercenary to accomplish just that.”

Guts silently worked the comb through a very stubborn knot, feeling great pride at himself for doing so. “What’ll you do when you have it?”

Griffith was quiet for a few moments. “Be a king, I suppose.”

“No shit.” Guts had one section left to comb out, then he could tie the hair back. This was giving him more satisfaction than it really should, in his mind, but he supposed he was just a man who liked to do his best.

Griffith chuckled. “Fair. It is the obvious answer. What I want, more than anything else, is to be a great king. I want to create a society where everyone is equal, and everyone has the same opportunities, and where no one is poor or hungry.”

“That sounds really nice,” Guts said, giving the locks one last run through with the comb.

“Thank you,” Griffith said quietly. “It means a great deal to hear that, considering I am using you to accomplish that dream.”

“It’s what I signed up for.” One more pass with the comb, just for good measure. In truth, he didn’t want the serenity of the moment to end.

“Yes, but I’m still glad you like the idea you’re working towards.”

“It’s as good a dream as any. I think lots of the world’s problems could be solved if everyone had some food in their bellies. But most kings don’t seem to see it that way.”

Guts stepped back and Griffith ran his own fingers through his hair. “Lovely.” He held up the ribbon. “Would you mind...”

“Sure.” Guts took the ribbon and gathered some of Griffith’s hair, tying it as best he could. He couldn’t quite make a bow, but he could tuck in the ends of the ribbon and hide the knot he made by tucking some over that too.

“Do you think my dream is worth dying for?” Griffith asked suddenly, not even looking at the job Guts had completed.

Guts shrugged. “I just swing my sword and get from one battle to the next. But...” He said, looking away. “If I have to die for anything, I’d rather it be for something good, rather than some pointless war fought for stupid reasons.”

“Then I’ll make sure you stay alive to see it through.” Griffith turned his neck, looking at the ponytail Guts had made. “This is splendid, Guts. You did a wonderful job.”

Guts blushed a deep red. “Thank you,” he said sheepishly.

“You’re more than a sword, my dear. Remember that.” Griffith stood and fixed his clothes, reaching up to give Guts a quick peck on the cheek. The whole thing was so goddamn domestic that Guts had no idea how to feel about it, other than vaguely shocked. “I will see you soon.”

“I...I’ll be here.” Guts settled for, rubbing the back of his neck.

The smile Griffith gave him made his knees slightly weak, and Guts was forced to face reality: he’d never felt like this before, it was probably....no, he wouldn't say it. He would settle for he’d never cared for anyone quite like this, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sappy cuteness, because that's what we all deserve right now. 
> 
> A/N: Comments are being moderated.
> 
> https://inkyblacc.tumblr.com/
> 
> My YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC97JcI76oZWkH25xm3BHRPQ
> 
> Spotify Playlist for fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2F9QSVpSNlqQowtpPvSt2C?si=3K3VVGjmSyy9Dw0vjfBi5w


	4. Present (Griffith POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guts gets Griffith a gift.

**Four:**

**Present (Griffith POV)**

The leaves crunched under Griffith’s good leather boots as he walked through camp to his tent. A few of them danced in the wind as he walked, the smell of autumn in the air. His shoulder-strapped purse was heavy at his side, and his gloves were starting to make his hands a little too warm for comfort. He waved at some of the others milling about, either the men too injured to go into town or without any interest. The camp would be quiet for a few more hours until night fell. Perhaps longer, depending on if any of the mercenaries decided to spend some time at the local tavern. He didn’t mind. He had no taste for socializing in such places, and he was looking forward to some alone time with his pet.

The wind nearly took his wide-brimmed hat and carried it off into the trees. Truthfully, Griffith wouldn’t have missed it if it did, and he grabbed it more out of reflex than anything else. He had not spotted any hats he wanted in town, or else the wretched old thing would be in the fire pit. He’d bought it with his first pay as a mercenary, and while it was sentimental it also had a hole in the top that let the cold in. He’d donned it in the morning to keep the sun out of his eyes, but now that the sun was lower in the sky it was all but useless. He took it off and tucked it under his shoulder. It was still the only one he had, even if the feathered plume looked more like a stick these days.

Griffith looked down at the helm in his hands. He’d been later than he’d meant to, having waited for this piece. He could only hope that Guts liked it. It had cost him a great deal of money, but it would be worth it to see the other man smile. It would also be worth it to keep Guts from getting a sword to the skull, but his smile was almost as valuable.

How hopelessly romantic. Guts would hate that aspect of the whole thing. He seemed to think romance was some sort of manipulation tactic and didn’t seem to understand that people did nice things because they wanted to. Not for the first time, Griffith wondered what kind of life his darling had lived before he came to the Hawks, for simple romanticism to be so...off-putting.

Guts was already in the tent when he arrived back, sitting in the corner, looking at one of Griffith’s books. Their reading lessons had been going slowly but surely, but Griffith knew the book the other man was holding was mostly illustrations. “Did you miss me?” He asked casually.

Guts scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Pity.” Griffith took off his hat and set it on his make-shift dresser. “Did you have a good time in town?”

Guts shrugged. “It was alright. Didn’t see much I wanted. Had some mead, walked around, came back.”

“You’re soon going to be the richest Hawk,” Griffith teased, “by virtue of being the stingiest.”

“What am I going to spend money on? All my armour is fine, and if I need new shit I can just loot some of the bodies at our next battle.” Guts turned the page, watching Griffith carefully. “Did you get some for yourself?”

Griffith held out the helmet in his hands. “No. This is a gift for you.”

Guts stood up and walked over, cautiously, like he was waiting for Griffith to trap him as soon as he got close. Griffith held out the piece of armour at the end of his reach, trying to put Guts at ease. Finally, the other mercenary got close enough to see the helm clearly. “You got me a helmet.” Guts said, taking the thing from Griffith’s hands, turning it over, running his huge fingers over the plume. “Why?”

“You need a better quality one than anyone else because you’re the only Hawk stupid enough to put yourself in a situation where yours break,” Griffith said, staring Guts down. Perhaps if he saw how much money Griffith was spending on him, he’d stop being so reckless. And perhaps horses would fly and chickens would learn perfect English.

Guts frowned at him. “You weren’t complaining.”

“Oh for...I did complain. So did Casca. You don’t listen to either of us, so if I want you to stay alive, I apparently have to make sure I protect that empty head of yours.” Guts bared his teeth. Griffith had long since tired of that favourite intimidation tactic. “I can give it to Pippin if you don’t like it.”

“I do.” Guts said quietly, surprising Griffith. “It just seems a little...much.”

“Consider it a Christmas gift.”

“It’s autumn.”

“Will you stop complaining? I wanted to buy you a nice helmet because I want to protect you. You’re just going to have to live with it.” Griffith snapped, struggling with his cloak. The wool was thick, perfect for keeping out the autumn chill, but it was also ornate, more so than his winter attire. It always took an extra minute or two to get out of it. He looked back over at Guts, who was now just...staring at him. “What?!”

“Thanks,” Guts said, finally smiling at him. “I really like it.”

“You’re welcome,” Griffith said with a huff. “See if I buy you more gifts.”

“Hey now!” Guts exclaimed. “I never said I didn’t appreciate it.”

“I’m teasing, pet.” Griffith smiled sweetly at him. “I’ll do what I want with you. Gifts included.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Guts rolled his eyes. The flush deepened. Griffith raised an eyebrow. “Did you...”

“Yes, dearest, I procured more oil.” Griffith huffed. Then, looking at the crimson dusting Guts’ cheeks, he smirked. “Could it be that you’re...looking forward to using it?”

“No!” Guts protested, crossing his arms (when had they become so...big? When had Guts gotten taller than him? It seemed like the passage of time had escaped Griffith’s notice). “I mean...it’s better to have it. Then not.”

“Because you enjoy it more.” Griffith tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, watching Guts look increasingly uncomfortable, watching the blush spread down his face to his neck. “Don’t be so embarrassed, Guts. It’s only natural to want to enjoy sex.”

“Not with another guy!” Guts snapped.

“Haven’t we crossed this bridge already?” Griffith rolled his eyes. “Sex is sex. Many men enjoy being with other men. We’re not alone in that.”

“Whatever.” Guts grunted, flopping to the ground and grumbling to himself, reaching again for his earlier discarded book.

Griffith finished undoing his cloak and sat down next to Guts on the tent floor. “I’m glad you had a good day, at least, even if you didn’t spend any of your hard-earned money.” Guts flushed deeper, the redness going down his neck onto his chest. _Interesting,_ Griffith thought.

“I, uh, I did. Spend some. I mean.”

“Really? What did you get?”

“Why is it any of your business?” Guts snapped. “It’s my money.”

“I’m merely curious,” Griffith said, watching his captain carefully. “As we’ve established, you’re frugal. I wanted to know what caught your attention enough to buy it.”

“I got a new cloak.”

Griffith looked to the corner. He had indeed. It was a handsome brown, plain but sturdy, strewn into the corner of the tent. “How nice. See, was that so hard?”

“I got something else too,” Guts said, cautiously, like he wasn’t sure how Griffith would react.

“Oh? And what, praytell, did you get?” Griffith leaned closer to Guts, just to watch him squirm. Guts was nervous, and while it didn’t make sense, Griffith appreciated the entertainment value of it. 

“I...” Guts stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got you something when I was in town, okay? Don’t make a big deal out of it, or anything.” He scooted over to his new cloak, lifting it up and carefully grabbing something underneath. “I saw this, and I thought you’d like it. So I bought it.”

Griffith gasped. He was shocked that Guts had bought him a gift at all. He was more shocked that Guts had purchased him a new hat.

It was wide-brimmed, like his old one, but where that one was a boring faded black, this one was a navy colour, the brim coming to a point at the front. There were three feathers in it, each a brilliant white, fastened with a jewelled pin. It was soft to the touch, which meant it had to be beaver. It was bold and daring, but it would still match his other finery. He looked from the hat to Guts with wide eyes, nearly crying from sheer joy. “Guts...”

“You don’t like it. That’s okay,” Guts interrupted. “I’ll get a new one tomorrow. I thought it was nice, but I’m not really stylish, fashion is kind of dumb to me, but...”

Griffith held a finger to Guts’ lips, preventing his babbling from ruining the moment. “Guts. I don’t just like this hat. I love this hat. It is the perfect hat.”

Guts’ lips quirked into a smile under the pad of Griffith’s pointer finger. Griffith pulled his hand back. “I’m glad. It was...I thought you’d look real handsome in it.”

“Shall I put it on now?” Griffith said, his excitement seeping through. He didn’t care enough to be collected. This was a simply marvellous gift, and he needed to have it atop his head.

“Sure. I’d like that.” Guts rewarded Griffith with a warm smile. Griffith carefully passed the hat over, Guts taking it with the gentlest hands Griffith had ever seen him used. He slowly set it on Griffith’s head, pulling his hands back and looking. “Wow.”

“Is it...”

“You look more handsome than I thought. Go look at your mirror.”

Griffith stood and went to his ‘dresser’, looking in the small mirror on it. Guts was right. The hat fit him very well. He looked like a nobleman out for a jaunty mid-day ride, or like he was going to a ball. He smiled, taking off the hat and setting it on the dresser. “This is wonderful Guts. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Guts said, looking deep into Griffith’s eyes. “Just wanted to see you happy, is all.”

“I am.”

“Then so am I.” Guts said, turning back to his book.

Griffith walked over, sat down next to Guts, and rest his head on his shoulder. “Do you know what these pages say, or do you want me to tell you?”

Guts rested his own head on top of Griffith’s. “I think I do, but I like it when you tell me.”

Griffith placed his hand on Guts’ leg. Not his thigh, nor anywhere that would lead to his intentions being misread, right on his knee. Guts put his hand over his, the one not holding up his book. Griffith dared not speak of it. He didn’t want to break this spell, spoil this feeling, make Guts realize that he was displaying affection that was so rare for him. Getting less and less with every passing month, but still there. Griffith sighed, letting himself relax. “This is the story of Beowulf, a great warrior from the times of old...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wound up doing a lot of research into hats for this one. I don't think I will ever use that knowledge again, but now I know how hats and helmets were made in the middle ages, so...cool?
> 
> A/N: Comments are being moderated.
> 
> https://inkyblacc.tumblr.com/
> 
> My YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC97JcI76oZWkH25xm3BHRPQ
> 
> Spotify Playlist for fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2F9QSVpSNlqQowtpPvSt2C?si=3K3VVGjmSyy9Dw0vjfBi5w


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